Love, Anger, Madness

themselves on plots of land like birds of prey. Shame on anyone who stands in their way. Shame on anyone who doesn’t understand that nothing can stand in the way of them sinking their claws into what they decided must be theirs at all costs.

Yes, but me, I am a young black man who passed two university entrance exams brilliantly and who’s drawn to study architecture. I want my peace and quiet. I want my freedom. I want the right to choose and decide for myself. Maybe the two things would go together, maybe the uniform I would wear outside of school would assure me high grades in school and permission to live how I want, to do whatever appeals to me. I am not so sure, though. Now, that would be an interesting experiment: university benches filled with two hundred, three hundred students in architecture, medicine, all Blackshirts. Why not?

Dr. Valois? Who’s to say he’s not playing along so they’ll leave him alone? He and his daughter, pretending to applaud. No, no, no. They were indifferent to what’s happening to us! And now this sudden attentiveness!…

I’ve been practicing knife throwing against the almond tree. The only tree that still belongs to us now, since it stands right in front of our door, just off the street, the only entrance permitted the virtual prisoners that we are. It turns out I have unusual skills. The trunk of the almond tree is riddled with wounds. I am wasting my rage and rebellion on it. Every day for two hours, I strike it mercilessly, from afar and from up close. I am really astonishingly skillful, even in the dark. Not once have I missed my throw. Ready for the circus. Paul Normil, Knife Thrower! I’ll frame Anna’s body with twenty knives without a nick. Blindfolded, I’ll trace her outline head to toe. Paul Normil, Champion Bladesman. From whom did I inherit such a talent? A man can learn a lot about himself as his life unwinds. He is what circumstances make him, as they say. Could my father kill him? He’s nothing but a coward. Good for nothing save playing at Jesus. Good at holding out his left cheek after being hit on the right. The beggars have learned how to handle guns, and here I am dabbling in knives. Is there anyone who owns a firearm besides the men in uniform and their spies? I will slip on the uniform to kill the Gorilla. That way I will get hold of a weapon with which to defend myself. I’ll give a military salute and they’ll think: another one of us. My boots will crush the invalids, the indifferent, anyone who hasn’t joined up, anyone too suspicious to be invited to join, the impotent ones like my father who are scorned and hounded.

Palm shadows move and rustle beneath my feet! I walk over them with heavy steps, leaving my house far behind, leaving the others behind. Cutting myself off from everything! Forgetting my parents, imagining no one in the world will shed tears over me. Rose, skin and bones. My mother and her dim, suffering eyes! My father’s shoulders sagging with shame! A heavy thing, shame. Harder to bear than a ton of scrap iron. Coward! You threw your daughter to the wolves.

I sat on a bench nestled under the trees, on the edge of that little square where I like to loaf, and opened my textbook. It must have been eleven in the morning. A group of kids coming back from school filled the square, running, chasing each other, carefree. Immersed in their play, they paid me no mind. It made me miss childhood. Memories rose up, disappeared and reappeared. Grandfather said: “Not one sheep left in the country but the birds of prey are everywhere.” Did the little one understand that? He searched the sky for the heavy black wings of the malfinis circling above the oak trees, their beaks aimed at the ground. It’s true that it’s been a long time since we’ve eaten lamb. Will I kill him? Could I? Or just kill myself, that would certainly be easier. You’re born either a killer or a suicide. I tread upon tree shadows looking for my elusive self. Lazy. The self that likes books, the self that wants to be an architect. There are choices. Everything is here. But first, take out one of them, just one. Watch his blood spread like a red sheet over his black uniform! And after that, live my life. A lie. That won’t be enough. I’ll stagnate like the water in this stinking ditch, green, no strength to move, never realizing myself. Despair is like an itch; you satisfy it for a moment and then it returns. A useless gesture! I think too much. I’ll end up going soft, sinking into a refusal to act. Tell me what they’ve done to you, Rose, and I’m sure I’ll find the strength. But you won’t talk. You’ll take your secret to the grave, your mouth sealed with dirt. Full of spite, I trample the tree shadows. I can’t stand their serene indifference, their imperturbable mechanical movement. I’ve returned to the bench where I was sitting before. A blind man held out his hand to me and I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep under the slanting ray of sunlight hitting me full in the face. What’s the point of giving alms to one invalid when ten thousand others go hungry. I’ll walk through our front door and present myself in uniform, weapon on my belt. And Grandfather will cry, “Get out of here this instant, you bird of prey!” I’ll present myself in uniform, weapon at my side, and my mother will clutch at her heart in shock and horror. I’ll say to Rose: “Sell the land and leave.” She will shriek: “Why have you done this? Why have you done this?” A complete waste. Her sacrifice would have been a complete waste. Unless maybe she enjoys it? Dirty whore! No, she’s skin and bones, I don’t want to point the finger at her. What man hasn’t wanted her? It’s a brother’s job to look after his sister. “You’re from another era,” Fred Morin once said to me. I had a dollar in my pocket. In broad daylight, I went to some dive and paid a woman. She was afraid of me and kept her eyes closed, saying: “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” I left her to wander aimlessly through the streets. I saw cars rushing past and beggars running after them. They were almost throwing themselves under the wheels, holding out their hands, stinking and emaciated. A car for every man in uniform, that comes to thousands. I too will have one, and ride around with my women and my family. I returned to the bench in the square and opened my book again. I have to study, I must. I heard the shots and I hid behind a tree as if I were guilty. The fugitive ran past me, then saw me and stopped. I retraced my steps and he followed quietly a few paces behind me, not saying a word. I could hear him panting as I sat back down on the bench. So I took a look at him. He was about my age and his clothes and shoes were clean. The sweat streaming over his face was enough to give him away if the people who were after him were to find us together. I said to him:

“Sit down and wipe your face.”

“I don’t have a handkerchief,” he said to me.

Taking mine from my pocket to give it to him, I felt the point of the knife pricking my chest. Not far from us, we heard the sound of the boots, and he instinctively drew near me.

“What did you do?” I asked him.

“What do you think I could have possibly done to deserve execution,” he replied. “Don’t you know they kill for the sheer pleasure of it?”

I handed him my textbook. “Keep your head down. Read quietly.”

He did what I said. The sound of boots faded and we could hear the whistle blow for the squadron to regroup.

“Thank you,” he said to me as he gently slumped back. Then, resting his head on the back of the bench:

“I’m falling asleep, I’m falling asleep,” he said again.

And he quickly closed his eyes.

Why did I stay behind to keep a lookout as he slept? Lunch had come and gone by the time I returned home. I had left the stranger asleep, and the next day I learned that a student had been executed on a bench in the middle of a public square. That day, Fred Morin came by and I refused to see him. I locked myself in my room, afraid I’d come unhinged if anyone spoke to me. I felt as if I had lost a friend. I was in mourning. Horrible pain, part remorse, part rebellion, gripped my heart. Why? Why? I kept asking myself. Why had they murdered him? Why? Why? What was he guilty of? Did he refuse to offer his sister? Rose! My very own sister! Defiled! If I want to kill the Gorilla, I have to face facts. As for Grandfather, he’s filled with silent hatred toward her, as though she were the enemy. I fear the day he’ll ask to be served in his room in order not to share his meals with us. Skin and bones. So gaunt. I’ll kill him, I can feel it…

I wanted to see Anna again before doing anything. I have a pretty good idea what will happen to me, so I might as well feel a bit of joy before I go. It was seven in the evening and she was alone in the living room. She looked at me and began to sob.

“Are you angry at me, Paul?” she said to me. “What did I ever do to you?”

She tried to take my hands but I pulled back.

“Well, speak, say something!” she shouted.

I couldn’t. I tried to take her in my arms, but I was held back by something stronger than myself. A long line of hotheads. Never trusting anyone. My mother is right.

She mumbled:

“I don’t know why you’re like this. I don’t. I love you and I don’t know why you’re putting me through this. Is that fair? Or is it that you don’t love me anymore?”

I left and could hear her crying:

“Paul! Paul!”